King of the Zulus
Something has been going on outside Zulu headquarters for three weekends in a row. It is election season. It may be June but Mardi Gras is in the air. Carnival is the spirit that animates everything in New Orleans. Were it not for Mardi Gras, New Orleans would be Mobile.
I only said that because whenever I go to Mobile (Alabama) everyone wants to tell me that Mardi Gras was invented in Mobile. It’s not just me they tell. They’ll tell anyone who will listen. It being Mobile, most everyone is a captive audience. Roaches get in but they can’t get out.
Back to the Zulu Social Aid and Pleasure Club.
Zulu is important, though the club hasn't been around forever. I am not going to look it up for accuracy. Here is the story off the top of my head:
In the 1920s, in reaction to Rex, black New Orleanians started their own parade, starting Uptown outside a funeral home and ending in Tremé. There was a popular play at the time. It had something to do with Zulus. It had nothing to do with the 1964 movie starring Michael Caine, however, if you get the chance to see it—do. I think it was a musical comedy. Plus ça change plus c’est la même chose.
Don’t you hate it when somebody quotes another language but doesn’t bother to translate. Thank a lot, Mr. Smarty Pants. It means, “the more things change the more they stay the same.”
Vive la revolution.
Members of Zulu who are not officers dress in grass skirts and blackface, just like real Zulus do out in the wild. It is tradition. If there is one thing people don’t mess with in New Orleans, it is tradition. People in New Orleans do what they do because they cherish the things that ain’t dere no more. After you lose everything, what remains has an extra-special value.
I am getting misty-eyed as I type this, thinking of all the things that ain’t dere no more. I have only lived here fifteen years, a blink of God’s eye. I have lived in New Orleans for 4% of the city’s lifespan thus far. Hardly a drop in the bucket, but certainly more significant than a grain of sand on the banks of the Ganges. Or is only important to me?
New Orleans inspires contemplating one’s mortality. We go about our days surrounded by splendid decay in a grand necropolis. Riverside of the line that tracks Gentilly Boulevard, there is not one neighborhood without a cemetery, except in the Lower 9. People die in the Lower 9, they just don’t get buried there.
Never get buried downriver of the Industrial Canal.
Anyhow, the neutral ground in front of the Zulu headquarters has been full of barbecue smokers, grills, and open air bars. A man who rolls his own cigars on Banks Street sets up a tent and sells his wares. It’s a giant street party every weekend. It is also serious business.
Don’t be mistaken by outward frivolity. Under the surface, all sorts of things percolate in New Orleans. Nothing is what it seems. That is what makes it magical. You should see the Zulu King in full regalia. Mardi Gras is the most magical day of the year.
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